Birth Of the Kingdom (2010) (39 page)

Arn realized too late that he had been tactless in his timing as he tried to make his own son see the threat to the realm and how they needed to defend themselves. He answered evasively that no danger would befall them during the next few years, and it was true that this wedding offered a strong message of peace. He was merely trying to see further into the future. At that, Magnus just shrugged his shoulders. Arn then asked him about the youth games at Bjälbo.

With much greater enthusiasm Magnus seized upon this topic of conversation and described in detail everything that had taken place during each of the seven contests. In the end he had come out the victor, and Erik jarl was again defeated.

More than an hour passed, and Arn began to have trouble
hiding his impatience even though he had arrogantly promised Birger Brosa he would arrive at Bjälbo when the jarl did. Only with difficulty did he finally turn down Magnus’s suggestion that they have a tankard of ale before his departure. They said farewell out in the courtyard, and Arn set off for Bjälbo at once, at full gallop. Magnus watched his father ride away, thinking that no one could keep up that pace for long; no doubt his father merely wanted to show his strength as long as he was in sight, but he would have to slow down as soon as he was beyond the oak grove south of Ulvåsa.

Birger Brosa and his retinue did not have to make another rest stop before they reached Bjälbo, and they could already see the church tower in the distance when Arn suddenly came racing up behind them, riding one of his foreign stallions at great speed. When Birger Brosa was told that a rider was approaching, he turned around in his saddle and saw the Folkung mantle. At first he thought that Arn had doubtless sneaked up behind them in order to ride the last stretch of the way at this unreasonable pace. But he soon had misgivings when he saw that Arn’s steed was lathered with sweat.

Arn was relieved to find that the young horse he had chosen to ride to the wedding turned out to be good enough, even though it was slow compared to Abu Anaza. But Abu Anaza was black, and it would not have been suitable to ride such a horse to a wedding. An animal of that colour, according to what Cecilia had told him, was more appropriate for a funeral and would be considered bad luck at a wedding.

Birger Brosa led the way and came to a halt as soon as they entered the confines of Bjälbo behind the stockade. He first wished to don simpler attire, then he had to go to his writing chamber where people were waiting with all
sorts of missives. Only then would he meet with Arn, and their meeting would take place in the tower chamber of the church where the clan
ting
would be held in former times. A brazier and ale, cushions and sheepskins were to be taken up there at once; in an hour’s time no one but Arn was to be present. After issuing these brusque commands, Birger Brosa laboriously dismounted from his horse, handing the reins to a stable thrall without even glancing around. Then with determined strides he headed for the longhouse.

Feeling rather offended, Arn himself saw to the care of his horse, which needed attention after such a hard ride. He paid no attention to the fact that his presence in the stable caused much confusion and surprise among the thralls. The health of his horse was more important. After drying the horse’s flanks and cleaning the hooves, Arn asked for several hides, which he slung over the back of the dapple-gray steed to make sure the animal wouldn’t cool down too fast. And he spoke in a foreign tongue, whispering as he caressed and seemed to console the horse. The stable thralls shook their heads and exchanged glances behind Arn’s back, keeping out of his way.

After Arn left the horse, he went at once to brush himself off. Then at the appointed time he went to the old tower room and waited. There was a rank smell of mould and mortar. Birger Brosa arrived a bit late.

‘You are more trouble to me than any other kinsman, Arn Magnusson, and I will never make any sense of you!’ Birger Brosa said in greeting in a loud voice as he climbed the stairs. And without further ado he sank down onto the largest seat, exactly where Arn had thought he would choose to sit.

‘Then you must ask me questions, dear uncle, and with God’s help I will try to help you understand,’ replied Arn humbly. He had no desire to quarrel anew with the jarl.

‘It’s much worse than that!’ declared Birger Brosa. ‘And it will get even worse if I do understand, because then I will feel foolish that I hadn’t understood at once. And that would not please me. Nor do I have any particular wish to apologize, and I’ve already been humiliated by you once before. Now I am doing that again, for the second time. This has never happened, and as God is my witness, I shall never again, for a second time, be forced to ask some rogue for forgiveness!’

‘What is it that you wish me to forgive?’ asked Arn in surprise at this fiery drama his uncle was now presenting.

‘I’ve seen all the building that is going on at Arnäs,’ replied Birger Brosa in a different tone of voice, keeping his voice low. He threw out his arms in a gesture that almost looked like surrender. ‘I’ve seen what you’re building, and I’m not foolish. You’re building up the Folkung power to be greater than ever, you’re building so that we will be lords of this realm. My brother Magnus and your brother Eskil have also told me about what you’re doing at Forsvik. Need I say more?’

‘No, not if you wish me to forgive you, uncle,’ replied Arn cautiously.

‘Good! Will you have ale?’

‘I would prefer not to. During these past days I’ve had enough ale to last me till Christmas.’

Birger Brosa gave him a scornful smile and stood up. He took two ale tankards over to the ale cask, filled them both, and placed one of them in front of Arn before he went back to his seat. He settled himself more comfortably among the sheepskins with one knee drawn up; there he balanced his tankard, as was his custom. He gazed at Arn in silence for a while, but his expression was friendly.

‘Tell me of the castle that you’re building,’ he said. ‘How does it look today, how will it look when Arnäs is finished, and how will it look after several years?’

‘It will take time to answer these questions,’ said Arn.

‘Nothing is more important for the jarl of the realm at this moment. We have plenty of time, and we are alone, with no one else within earshot,’ replied Birger Brosa. He grabbed his tankard and took several good swallows before he placed it back on his knee. Then he threw out his hands without causing the tankard even to wobble.

‘Today there is peace, and the union is between the Eriks and Folkungs,’ Arn began hesitantly. ‘The Sverkers are lying low, biding their time until King Knut is gone, and God willing, that will not happen for a long time yet. So I do not see a war taking place for many years.’

‘Then we think alike,’ said the jarl, nodding. ‘But what about after that? What will happen then?’

‘No one knows,’ said Arn. ‘But one thing I do know: at that time there will be a greater danger of war. That doesn’t mean that things will go badly for us. For if we now build fortresses that are sufficiently strong, during the peace that we now have, our strength may preserve the peace as well as a wise marriage does.’

‘True,’ said Birger Brosa with a nod. ‘But what is our weakness?’

‘We cannot engage a Danish army on the battlefield,’ Arn swiftly replied.

‘A Danish army? Why a Danish army?’ asked Birger Brosa, raising his eyebrows.

‘That is the only danger we face and hence the only problem worth fretting about,’ replied Arn. ‘Denmark is a great power, a power that resembles the Frankish kingdom more than us, and the Danes wage war in the same way that the Franks do. The Danes have laid waste to great sections of Saxony and won much territory, showing that they are able to defeat Saxon armies. When they’ve had enough of heading southward, or when they reach so far
south that they can no longer keep their armies supplied, they may turn their attention to the north. And here we sit, a much easier quarry than Saxony. And in Roskilde sits Karl Sverkersson’s son, raised as a Dane, but still with an inherited right to our crown. He could become the Danes’ nominal king in our realm. That is how the situation looks if we try to imagine what might be the worst thing that might happen.’

Birger Brosa nodded pensively, almost as if acknowledging to himself that these were his darkest thoughts and he would have preferred to ignore them. In silence he drank more ale, expecting Arn also to remain silent until he received another question.

‘When can we defeat the Danes?’ Birger Brosa asked abruptly, speaking in a loud voice.

‘In five or six years, but it will cost us dearly. In ten years it would be easier,’ replied Arn with such confidence that Birger Brosa, who had expected a more lengthy explanation, was caught off guard.

‘Give me a more detailed explanation,’ he said after another long pause.

‘In five years King Knut may die,’ said Arn, swiftly raising his hand to prevent any interruption. ‘We don’t know that, and it’s a wicked thing to think, but wicked ideas also have to be tested. Then the Danish army will come here with a more or less eager Sverker Karlsson following behind. We have a hundred horsemen. Not the kind of horsemen that can counter a great Frankish or Danish army, but a hundred horsemen that can make their passage through our land a great misery. They never engage us in battle nor do they catch up with us, but we take their supplies, we kill their draft animals, we kill or wound a dozen Danes each day. We do our best to entice them to pursue us to Arnäs. There they are crushed in their encampment. That’s what would happen
in five years, and the price would be great devastation from Skara and all the way north.’

‘And in ten years?’ asked Birger Brosa.

‘In ten years we defeat them on the battlefield after first plaguing them with our light cavalry for a month,’ replied Arn. ‘But to make this possible, you will also have to exert yourself and pay for a great many things that will make big holes in your silver coffers.’

‘Why should I do this? Why not King Knut?’ asked Birger Brosa, and for the first time clearly showed surprise during this harsh conversation.

‘Because you are a Folkung,’ replied Arn. ‘The power that I am starting to build does not belong to the realm; it belongs to the Folkungs. It’s true that I have sworn loyalty to Knut, and I will stand by my oath. Perhaps some day I will also swear loyalty to Erik jarl, but we don’t know that. Today we’re united with the Eriks. But tomorrow? Of that we know nothing. The only thing that’s certain is that we Folkungs will stick together, and we’re the only power that can hold the realm together.’

‘I think you have understood this even better than you know,’ said Birger Brosa. ‘I must tell you something at once that is for your ears alone. But tell me first what you think I should do, as jarl or as a Folkung.’

‘You must build a fortress on the western shore of Lake Vättern, perhaps at Lena where you already own a large estate. The Danes will come from Skåne when they enter Western Götaland. At Skara they can continue on a northerly route toward Arnäs or take the unprotected road past Skövde and up to Lake Vättern and the king’s Näs. They must be stopped at Lena, and I hope that you will take this upon yourself. Axevalla at Skara must also be fortified. We will have our warriors in three fortresses. And our horsemen can move back and forth between the three without allowing the
enemy to attack us, preventing them from knowing where the next assault will occur. With three strong fortresses, one of which is impregnable, we will be secure.’

‘But Axevalla is a royal castle,’ objected Birger Brosa.

‘All the better for the sake of your own expenses,’ said Arn with a smile. ‘If I build up Arnäs and you do the same with Lena, you, in your position as jarl, shouldn’t have a hard time convincing Knut that the king ought to add his straw to the stack and fortify his own castle of Axevalla. He would do it as much for his own sake as for ours.’

‘I notice that you’ve begun to speak to me as if we were equals,’ said Birger Brosa, and for the first time he gave Arn a broad smile, which had always been a distinctive characteristic of his, ever since his youth.

‘Now it’s my turn to ask forgiveness, my uncle. I got carried away,’ replied Arn, bowing his head for a moment.

‘I too got carried away,’ replied Birger Brosa, still smiling. ‘But from now on I wish that you and I continue to speak with each other in this informal manner, except possibly when we attend the king’s council. But now to what I wanted to tell you of a great and difficult matter. Perhaps I would like to see Sverker Karlsson as our next king.’

Birger Brosa abruptly fell silent after speaking this treacherous thought. He may have been waiting for Arn to leap to his feet in anger, upsetting his ale and lashing out with words that were far from chivalrous, or at the very least gaping in surprise like a fish. But with equal parts disappointment and astonishment, he saw that Arn’s expression did not change. He merely sat there, waiting for Birger Brosa to continue.

‘I suppose you’d like to hear how I came to this conclusion?’ he now said, sounding a bit cross and his smile fading.

‘Yes,’ replied Arn tonelessly. ‘What you say may be either
treachery or something very wise, and I’d like to know which it is.’

‘The king is ill,’ said Birger Brosa with a sigh. ‘Sometimes he shits blood, and anyone knows that is not a good sign. He may not even last the five years that we need in order to offer even the most token defence.’

‘I have men trained as physicians with me who have too little to do. I will send them to Knut after Christmas,’ said Arn.

‘Men who are physicians, you say?’ Birger Brosa replied, interrupting his train of thought. ‘I thought it was mostly women who tended to such matters. No matter. But shitting blood is a bad sign, and Knut’s life rests in God’s hands. If he dies too soon, we will be in a bad position. Isn’t that true?’

‘Yes,’ said Arn. ‘So let’s consider the worst that might happen. What if Knut dies in three years? What do we do then? Is that why you’re thinking of Sverker Karlsson?’

‘Yes, that’s where he enters the picture with his Danish men,’ confirmed Birger Brosa with a gloomy nod. ‘He has been married to his Danish wife, I think Benedikta Ebbesdotter is her name, for six or seven years. She gave birth to a daughter early on, but no more children since then; and more importantly, no son.’